


You Don't Own Me

by AbsintheDreams



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dominance, F/M, How Do I Tag, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Possessive Tom Riddle, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-18 07:47:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17576786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbsintheDreams/pseuds/AbsintheDreams
Summary: Hermione can see the future, for all the good it does her. Mostly she just sees things she wished she hadn't.Tom can make anyone do anything. Just by saying so.Except her.





	1. Chapter 1

"Everybody knows that the dice are loaded  
Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed  
Everybody knows the war is over  
Everybody knows the good guys lost  
Everybody knows the fight was fixed  
The poor stay poor, the rich get rich  
That's how it goes  
Everybody knows"

\- Sigrid. "Everybody Knows"

 

You Don't Own Me

By: Absinthe Dreams

 

The autumn air was brisk and damp. The feeling of being back to school, their last year of high school hung like some obscure shroud, lingering bitter sweet as it draped them simultaneously in nostalgia and fear of their unknown futures. Soon Harry would be off to the police academy, Ronald would go to community college and work part time at his brother’s joke shop, and she… Hermione’s thick hair whipped around her face as she turned it into the wind, taking a deep breath. Last year she believed she would be off to some ivy league school, hopefully on scholarship, but now… With her father ill…

Biting her lip she shoved down any lingering self pity. She had applied to community college as well, and work would be simple enough to find. The key was locating something that paid well and allowed for part time hours, but she had a year after all. The broken look on her mum's face when the acceptance letter to Stanford had come in...No, she mustn’t dwell on it. Things were different now and they all had to be stronger, make sacrifices. She’d known since she was twelve that her life would be difficult. What good was a gift if it couldn't protect anyone? Especially the father she loved. 

“You alright Hermione?” Ron asked carefully. He was treating her like glass lately, and she hated it. She missed her rough, awkward friend with his blunt manners, not this sheepish boy giving her tentative looks. 

“Fine.” 

“It's not the-” At her sharp look the green boy broke off awkwardly, running his hand through his messy black hair, “Good, just checking. You know…” She sometimes wished Harry had never seen her sketchbook. Last year it had been such a relief to share her secret, but nothing felt the same after the illness.

Her secret power filled her with disgust now. She fought the urge to draw until she got sick, her temple throbbing and bile filling her throat. She didn't want to see it anymore. The future never held anything happy, just eerie warnings and vague insinuations. What was worst was the powerlessness. She couldn't do anything. What if the next thing she drew was her father, his face wane from sickness, eyes open but unseeing… 

“Let's make a promise,” Hermione wrapped her shorter arms around the two boy’s necks, almost on the tip of her toes to reach Ron’s. “Let’s make this the best year yet.” 

“Easy for you to say, you don't have Snape for Calculus,” Harry joked. Hermione gave him a cheeky grin. 

“Well if you want to stay Rugby captain I suggest you crack a textbook, I had him for A.P. Geometry and he's strict.” Hermione suggested knowingly. 

“I can't believe I have the last lunch period,” Ron sighed, “I'll never make it.” Harry snorted, shrugging off Hermione’s grip and patting her head. 

“Yeah he's likely to waste away before our very eyes.”

“Shrink to skin and bones,” Hermione agreed and they smiled teasingly at the scowling redhead. 

“Oh sod off you two, I'll have you know I-” His words dropped off. “Blimey, what do you suppose it is this time?” The trio drew to a halt, taking in the squad cars, ambulance and fire truck parked in front of Gryffindor High, their lights flashing and students herded into a tight knit group some distance away. 

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath as a muscle spasm hit her gut so hard she couldn't help but double over. A cold sweat broke out on her pale flesh, fingers already twitching. No. Not again…

“Whoa, you okay?” Ron asked, taken aback by her violent reaction. 

“Yeah, just cramps.” 

Ron's lightly freckled face screwed up in pure male distaste. A knee jerk reaction that would normally annoy her feminist sensibilities, but the pain was getting worse. The need had been bad lately and she had already been repressing it. She had to draw. Harry was watching her with a keen expression, not at all taken aback by her suggestion of ‘womanly’ problems. Green eyes probed into her from behind a thin layer of glass. 

“You should get to the nurse’s office, or the lavatory, then,” Harry suggested, his voice and expression making it clear he was nearly certain he knew what was really happening. 

Whatever he was able to discern, Hermione had never told him what it was really like. Her drawings were as much a compulsion as they were a gift. Drawing the future was something she couldn't help but do, regardless of her own desire. But he'd seen her draw, really draw, that once, and something about how quiet he had been afterwards, almost shaken, made her believe he might have guessed. Hermione couldn't be sure. She had never watched herself do it, the process was too absorbing. 

The wild haired girl half ran, half stumbled up the large white steps up to the school’s front entrance. Luckily everyone was so entranced by the commotion going on in the street no one paid her any mind as she tore through the large glass doors and beelined down the open halls towards the library. It was her sanctuary, no one ever questioned why the antisocial girl at the top of her class cloistered herself away in the back stacks of the school library. They assumed she was studying. 

Her backpack slapped the back table, and she almost tore the zipper her hands were shaking so bad, her gut roiling and heaving. Taking a deep breath she slipped out a notebook, having burned her sketchbook in a fit of defiance. As if it could cure her. Her hand clutched the nearest writing utensil, a crappy bic pen, but she couldn't care less about the medium or quality of her work. She just wanted it to be over. As soon as the pen touched the lined paper her hand jerked, taking on a mind and life of its own. 

It was near impossible to describe what it was like. It was like she was herself, but not. Her body and muscle was there, but her mind was distant, taking it all in from a backseat perspective. A force seemed to seep deep into her bones, driving her meat and muscle, fueling her hands as they swept clear, cutting black lines. It knew what she was drawing, all Hermione had to do was obey its need, and watch as the picture formed. 

First came the lips. Masculine and mocking, her pen etched a nearly teasing grin onto the thin paper. Then the nose, slightly long but pleasant enough, her breath caught as her hand drew the eyes. Dark, cunning, more shadow than light. The rest of the features followed, capturing a handsome boy, but her eyes stayed glued to the dark irises her hand had depicted. Despite the 2D nature of it, the eyes themselves seemed to hold life, sucking into her from sooty lashes and tugging her into those fathomless pools. Without her paints or colored pencils she would never know their color, but there was something dark there, something intense. Terror pounded through her, inexplicable but very visceral as were most of the feelings she got with these images. Strange images and random feelings, and she rarely knew what they meant until it was too late. 

It made no sense. As usual. Hermione tore the paper from the metal binding, willing herself to shred it into pieces. It crumpled easily, but she hesitated to rip it, instead staring at the balled paper in her white knuckled grip for a long, tense moment before reluctantly smoothing it back out with a belabored sigh. Cinnamon eyes peered back at the drawn profile, trying to pinpoint what in the innocuous depiction of a relatively handsome boy, around her own age, perhaps a little older, could possibly spark such spine curdling fear. 

Nothing immediately stood out to her, but the feeling of unease persisted, her mouth dry as she folded it carefully and slipped it into the outer pocket of her bag. The bell rang and she flinched. Oh great. She was late for class. Not the best way for the future valedictorian to start her year. 

It turned out the incident in the parking lot was just yet another car accident. Some overly confident sophomore had crunched in the side of a soccer mom’s van. Despite the lack of sensation to the news it was all anyone talked about all day. Harry was in a bad mood after third period, claiming Snape had it out for him. He wouldn’t listen to her reassurances that he was always prone to humiliating someone on the first day to serve as a warning to the class. A less than pleasant teaching method to be sure, but despite his acid personality the man was a mathematical genius. At least Snape took Harry’s mind off Hermione and what happened earlier. 

She wasn’t sure she was ready to show anyone the picture yet. Not even Harry, and they’d been best friends since primary school. It scared her, and Hermione wasn't used to feeling such baseless fear. A part of her was overly aware of the piece of paper traveling with her, it seemed to have a presence inside the front pocket of her backpack. What's worse, the urge to draw hadn’t fully gone away. Usually she felt drained after a drawing, not quite satisfied but somewhat peaceful. Right now she still felt the itch, her fingers clutched in her lap on the way home to keep them from twitching. 

“How was your first day, honey?” Jean Granger asked, having insisted on picking her up on the first day like always and they were even still going out for ice cream. As if everything was the same, but keeping up that lie got more painful everyday. Like swallowing spoonful after spoonful of glass. 

The tense brunette girl sat in the backseat, and the empty space up front carried volumes. None of her dad’s jokes or easy smiles this time. He was back in the hospital, maybe this time for good. Her mum looked tired, deep circles under her eyes, smile pinched. Every second she spent out of the dentist's office she and her husband once shared, she was usually at the hospital, and Hermione couldn't blame her. She was watching someone she loved die, they both were and pretending otherwise was stupid. 

“It was good,” Hermione cleared her throat, looking out the window without really taking in the scenery. “I think I'll be able to handle my class load just fine.”

“That's good dear,” she was trying, Hermione reminded herself as the bitterness welled. This wasn’t her fault, but it didn't suck any less. 

“You haven't had any… artistic moments lately?” Her mother’s hands were positively white on the steering wheel. Her parents rarely spoke of her “gift” and it was just some sort of unspoken rule that they all pretend what Hermione did was normal. Not at all weird or scary. 

“No,” the lie slipped off her tongue easily, the burning presence of the piece of paper in her backpack almost as intense as a living stare.

“Oh, well, good, that's good,” Jean smoothed back her hair, smiling wanely at her daughter through the rearview mirror. Hermione twisted her fingers, feeling the itch spike and choking it down. 

They went out. Had ice cream at the tiny parlor. Hermione ordered pistachio, her favorite, with fudge drizzle. Her mother got pecan, her dad’s favorite, but neither remarked on her selection. Instead they talked about menial things, Hermione’s curriculum and her mother’s patients, what plants they wanted in the garden this summer. Meaningless details. It was almost pleasant. It would have been more so if she could stifle the twisting need in her gut. 

It grew almost unbearable on the ride home, and it took every inch of her willpower not to break down and give in with her backpack so close. If her mother had been anything less than exhausted she might have noticed her uncharacteristic squirming in the backseat. As it was she dropped Hermione off at the front of the driveway, visiting hours were almost over.

“What if I came with?” Hermione asked, for what seemed the millionth time. Crestfallen, Jean patted her cheek. 

“He isn't doing so well, darling, maybe next week?” She offered hopefully. 

“What if he doesn't start to get better this time?” Hermione asked, carefully blinking back her tears. 

“Oh honey,” Jean wrapped her in a hug, patting her thick hair, “We can't think like that.”

“I just miss him,”” Hermione admitted gruffly, squeezing hard. 

“I know, and he misses you too, he's just so tired,” Jean wiped at her own eyes, trying to hide their wetness. “Next week, okay? I promise.” 

“Tell him I love him,” Hermione insisted, a bit primly to hide her emotions. Jean nodded. 

“Of course. There's some dinner in the freezer, or money for takeout if you like.” She kissed her daughter's forehead, looking so much older as of late, the lines around her eyes and mouth really beginning to show. 

“I'll be fine,” Hermione assured her, clenching and unclenching her hands as she fought to smile. The pain was back, fiercer, more gnawing. She watched her mother get in their faded blue car, allowing herself to run up to the front door when she saw the car had turned off the block and out of sight. 

Her hands shook as she fitted the key into the lock, the door slamming behind her as she threw her backpack aside and made a beeline for her room. She didn't know why, but she needed to paint. Color this time. Bold strokes. The need was so keen it shrank her focus into a single minded drive. Tying her thick curls into a tight knot, she rolled up the sleeves of her flannel long sleeve, facing her canvas with a certain dread and desire. Paint, thick and bright acrylic, slashed against the white, there was so much red. 

-*- 

Riddle idly watched the blood wash from his long dexterous fingers, swirling down the bowl, around and around before pouring down the drain. He looked up, seeing the trembling scrap of waste eyeing him with horrified eyes, unable to scream since he’d ordered her to be quiet. A blessing, to be sure, she’d been making quite the racket at the sight of her husband hacking off his own limbs. He could have just ordered the man to tell him where the hard drive was, but he had wanted to watch him suffer. A sad puppet, just like the rest. It gave him some satisfaction to watch him, powerless and in agony, sawing at his extremities one by one, fingers, toes, legs, and then his arm, unable to stop until he bled out. 

Just then, his phone rang. “You don't mind, do you?” He asked rhetorically of the silently sobbing woman frozen over the remains of her husband, smiling as he flipped open the device and held it to his ear. “Yes, this is Tom Riddle.”

After a moment he smirked, tapping his finger against his lip. “Oh, rest assured, you have caught my interest Mr…?”

“Dumbledore,” he eyed the sniveling Mrs. Smith, eyes keen as he smiled slowly, “I appreciate the opportunity sir, and look forward to meeting you.”

“Yes, seven o’clock is fine, see you then,” he snapped the phone shut and smoothed his already perfect black hair. “Well, it seems I have a few things to settle before my meeting so I'll make this quick. Here,” he picked up the knife her husband had used to remove his toes and fingers. “Cut your throat.” 

Helpless but to obey, the blonde forty something woman reached out for the bloody knife, slicing into her own jugular immediately and dropping to the floor. Riddle didn't so much as spare her a backward glance, adjusting his watch and striding from the apartment, hard drive in hand.

-*- 

A/N: I have so much love for this dark little plot bunny, but Down A Hole is sucking up most of my creative juices so I'm afraid updates on this may be a bit more sporadic. Still I hope you enjoy this Jessica Jones slash Dark Visions inspired fanfiction. Stay tuned for more Tomicidal goodness.


	2. I'm Not One of Your Many Toys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally planned to post this around Valentine's Day, but you guys showed me so much love I can't hold back.

You Don't Own Me

By: Absinthe Dreams

 

“They say freak,   
When you're singled out,  
The red,  
Well it filters through.

So lay down,   
The threat is real,

When her sight,  
Goes red again.

Seeing red again,  
Seeing red again.”

-Chevelle “The Red” (Although I changed the ‘his’ to ‘her’)

 

Hermione felt her knees give way, thudding against the abrasive carpet, but she barely felt the sting. Her face was covered in sweat, and a bit of paint, breath coming in shallow pants as she stared up at the canvas in horror. She had never painted anything so brutal, so horrifying, and she felt nauseous just looking at it. Shaky, she felt the world tilt and swirl around her. At the piercing cry in the dead of silence the usually unflappable girl made a girlish noise, holding her thundering heart as she realized it was just her cell phone. 

“Hello?” She managed to dig the phone out of her discarded jacket, clearing her throat as she determinedly avoided eye contact with her easel. The image there was so nightmarish it was difficult to face the fact that it'd come from her hand. 

“Is this a Miss Hermione Granger?” A kind, elderly voice enquired. It did wonders to soothe her frantic pulse. 

“Yes,” she replied reflexively. 

“Excellent, Miss Granger, I am with a very exclusive academy, perhaps you've heard of The Hogwarts Institute?” Hermione gasped, momentarily distracted. 

“That exclusive school in Scotland? I've heard of it,” she admitted. 

“Of course you have.” He seemed to mean it as a compliment, “A bright girl like you would know of all the best schools to apply to. My name is Professor Albus Dumbledore and I find myself in a very happy position, Miss Granger, of offering you a full term scholarship to our Academy. If you have time this week to meet, we could perhaps go over the details.” Dumbledore as in the Dumbledore? Billionaire philanthropist and accredited genius, known for his work in the fields of molecular science and bioengineering? 

Stunned, Hermione could only grasp the phone, a million scenarios playing through her head. What if it was a prank? What if it wasn't? Why did the most prestigious and exclusive school in all of Europe want her all the sudden? In her senior year? It was impossible!

She remembered the cruelness of her reality, her father’s condition, the financial support her family needed… It was in fact, no matter prank or not, impossible. She couldn't leave to school in Scotland, not now. It was inconceivable. 

“I'm sorry sir, but I can't accept.”

There was a long silence on the other line, “I do understand, Miss Granger,” he said with more compassion than a stranger should perhaps have, “I do hope you will reconsider. If you change your mind you have my number.”

“Thank you sir,” Hermione murmured, inwardly crestfallen. 

“I will be available all week in your area. I truly do hope to hear from you.” 

“All the best, Miss Granger,” he added softly, and his voice was so empathetic she could only manage a stiff, 

“You as well, sir,” before hitting disconnect. She let the phone tumble from her numb fingers, she had spent so many hours painting, utterly immersed, the evening sky was now shining through her bedroom window. Time had no meaning when it took her. All she knew was the urge to complete the image. This one was so raw she could barely bare to look at it. She knew that face. Those strawberry locks, that wide frozen smile. All that blood, how could anyone survive that much blood? A part of her knew why the skin had been painted so pale, eyes so vacant, but she wanted to believe with her whole soul that she was mistaken. She was so young, Ginny couldn't die. 

Hermione stood up and raced to the toilet. She vomited until she dry heaved, and then heaved some more, a deep sickness striking her. Her hands shook. 

Murder? She had never seen such a thing. No matter how bad the future she drew was it was almost always accident or chance that brought it about. But this felt different. All of it. It was so wrong. Hermione huddled into herself, glad for once that she was always alone. She couldn't have faced anyone then, tears, hot and unwanted, slipping down her cheeks. No one could fix what she saw, any comfort would be hollow. 

“Get it together,” she whispered to herself desperately, “Come on Hermione, you got this.” She sat like that, cramped between the toilet and wall, until night had truly fallen, but eventually she managed to rouse herself, she still had responsibilities. The determined girl forced herself to stand up, splashed her face with water and faced the fact that the world wouldn't stop just because she was overwhelmed. By the time her homework was done to satisfaction and her frozen vegetarian lasagna microwaved and eaten, it was almost two am. She felt wooden as she fell into bed, not even bothering to change.

Sleep found her in a instant, but the nightmares followed swiftly. Dark looming eyes following her everywhere she went and blood splattered limbs dancing like skeletons in the dark, and Ginny’s face lifeless and surreal, smiling as she stabbed herself… The resilient girl woke in a cold sweat a minute before her alarm went off, heart racing, and scowled in disorientation down at the sight of her denim jeans and shirt. Had she had a bad dream?

A hot shower had her feeling human again and once she covered the painting and shoved it in her closet she was nearly able to pretend it had in fact all been a bad dream. To throw off her dark and anxious mood she dressed in her favorite cream sweater, dark jeans and soft brown boots, tying a soft scarf around her neck for protection against the autumn chill. She fluffed her disastrous hair, and managed a half smile-grimace at the mirror before she left and locked the house. Her mother having left hours earlier. 

They used to eat breakfast as a family, but when her father grew sick her mother struggled to handle their dental business, the hospital bills, and raising Hermione all by herself. So Hermione had done her best to take the last burden off her, becoming as independent as possible. Harry and Ron thought her unsupervised freedom was ‘cool’ but she just missed family breakfast, and all the other things that no longer existed. Being alone all the time didn't seem very cool. 

However self pity would have to wait. Everything she drew happened. Which meant Ginny was in trouble, and she could think of only one person who would truly believe her. He stood there looking so average, with his bespectacled green eyes and ruffled black hair. She hated to put this burden on him, to infect him with her weirdness. But she had no choice. Not if someone's life was in the balance. 

“Hey,” she blurted, and it was so obvious she had something to tell him.

“What is it? Is this about yesterday?” Harry asked. 

“Yes, and no, sort of, look,” Hermione collected her thoughts and breathed deep. “How well do you know Ron's sister?” 

“Ginny?” Harry scrunched his nose and shrugged, “Dunno, a little I guess. What does she have to do with this?”

“Everything,” she looked around, making sure Ron was running late as usual, he was. “Look, I have to tell you something and I need you to believe me.” Hermione told him desperately. 

Harry eyed her with serious conviction, “I trust you Hermione, and you can trust me, I promise.” 

Hermione swallowed hard against the grateful lump of emotion in her throat, “Okay, well, yesterday I painted something really bad. It was about Ginny, I think, and I don't know what to do.”

“Okay,” Harry nodded to himself as of in reassurance, “Well, tell me everything, if we want to stop the future we have to know what it is.” 

“You believe me? Just like that?” Hermione asked, taken aback. 

“Of course, we are in this together, Hermione,” he gave her a look, “I've seen what your drawings do, and I'm not going to run away. That's not what friends do.”

“Even if I'm a freak?” She asked, voicing her fear aloud. “What if this is something we can't change and I just see the inevitable?”

“Why would you be able to draw the future if you couldn't do anything about it? I don't believe that, and neither can you. We will fix this Hermione,” he told her, showing the leadership and confidence that had won him the position of rugby team captain. He shown with it sometimes, loyalty and bravery and she loved him for it. 

“Fix what?” Ron asked, startling them both as he approached seemingly from nowhere. They both jumped and looked at one another guilty. 

“Err...Hermione has a girl problem and with her mum gone all the time she was wondering if she could come by your house, you know, talk to your sister or mum,” Harry clapped his hand on Ron's back, “I figured you wouldn't mind.”

“Uhh, suppose not,” the tall carrot topped boy looked between them and shrugged, “My place after school then?” 

“Sounds great,” Harry enthused, giving Hermione a thumbs up. They would have to talk more later. Perhaps she should tell Ron, seeing as it was his sister and all, but she found the idea of willingly opening up about her ability impossible. If Harry hadn't stumbled upon it by mistake she wasn't certain she could have ever told him either. Still, she couldn't just stand idly by. Somehow or another, she had to figure out how to stop her painting from happening. 

 

A/N: Your kudos, bookmarks and comments made my muse drunk on euphoria. She churned out a few chapters in a blissed out creative binge. I originally planned to regulate this fiction to biweekly updates at most, since Down A Hole is still my number one. But this early update was the least I could do standing in the avalanche of support I received. More Tomicidal goodness next chapter, promise.


	3. Don't Tell Me What To Do, Don't Tell Me What To Say

You Don't Own Me

By Absinthe Dreams

 

"I'm defenseless  
It keeps getting hotter  
It's rough and it's reckless  
Between wind and water  
So lost in this  
I keep slipping farther  
Feels like its endless  
Between wind and water"

-Hael "Between Wind and Water"

 

There was a thunk books being set down all at once on the flimsy cafeteria table, rattling every lunch tray and residents there of. Hermione sighed and punctuated the unloading of her arms by plopping roughly down on the bench herself. Sandwiched in her usual spot beside Harry and across from Ron. It was already half way through the last lunch period, but it had occurred to her during her morning classes that she wasn't nearly close to being a homicide detective. So solving a murder might be a tiny bit out of her wheelhouse. Especially if you took into account that it hadn’t even happened yet. 

In fact, the bookish girl had no real experience solving a crime of any nature and she knew well that books and television didn't count. Everything was so well put together on T.V., one clue lead to a witness who hinted at the suspect and there was a brief bit of action before the good guys saved the day. Roll credits. Even the crime novels were much the same. It was all so tidy, so neat and obvious. Real life wasn't like fiction, and the only clue the wild haired girl possessed, perturbed her to the very core of her being to stare at for more than five seconds. Although Hermione still felt as if she could feel it lurking in vivid detail, just behind her eyelids. Flashes of red blooming everytime she blinked. 

Ron gaped at the pile of books. Alarmed as it was a new addition to her backpack, which was already crammed to the brim with her textbooks and references, so many large texts that the leather bag’s seams strained to contain them. 

“What's that all for?” The tall, blue eyed boy wiped his mouth with his knuckles and slid his hand on his jeans, likely leaving a remarkable trail of grease from the pizza he'd been inhaling. Hermione pulled a face, it was as if he had never heard of a napkin, or chewing for that matter. 

She'd already prepared her lie, “Extra credit.” Ron's snort of derision proved he bought it. 

“Blimey, Hermione, extra credit? With top marks in every class you still need extra?” Ron burped and patted his stomach in punctuation, earning another face from her. 

“Hey, you gonna eat your other slice?” Ron asked, not waiting for a answer to his other question. She waved him onward, her appetite thin as of late. He beamed and resumed shoveling. 

Hermione turned away, mostly for want of anything, please Lord anything, else to look at besides Ron's freakishly devoted attention to her last slice of pepperoni. He sort of tended to make these awkward little moaning sounds as he chewed. It was too awful to observe too closely. 

“I read this one last year in my extracurricular forensics course,” Harry mused, plucking up a criminology textbook and setting it to the side matter-of-factly. “This one…” he frowned, looking over the nonfiction novel written by one of the most well known FBI profilers in the field for the last forty years. A grizzly looking man named Alabaster Moody whose scarred face scowled from the back cover. 

“Hey can I borrow this when you're done?” 

Ron nearly choked, “Reading? For fun? Really Harry? She's bad enough to deal with as is! Am I the only normal one here?”

“Sure Harry,” Hermione assured the messy haired boy to her left with a smile. Her eyebrows arched at Ron and her carrot topped friend rolled his eyes, able to see the lecture coming a mile away. 

“Ron, you know you could benefit from the occasional-”

“Just remembered, gotta uh…” he searched his brain for a out, scrambling off the cafeteria bench, “Pee. That's it. Really bad. But I get it Hermione, books are good for me or whatever.” He dismissed, obviously intent on never following her well meant advice. Harry chuckled, raising his hands in defense as she shot him a look. 

Ronald, now free of her pinning glare, used this moment to escape, waving a mute goodbye towards Harry. 

“Well, he's not the academic type, you can't really blame him,” Harry hesitated, and then, in the spirit of the ruthless truth that their tri-way friendship seemed built on sometimes, “Also, that's probably the eight millionth time you've told him the same thing.”

Hermione pouted, but relented with a eye roll of her own. “Fine. It's good he took off, I guess, now we have a second to talk about what the game plan is for tonight.”

“Let me guess, it involves reading?” Harry mused wryly, eyeing her stack of large reference books knowingly. 

“Those are just research, for later,” she corrected sternly, “We need to think about how we can approach Ginny. I mean, it's not like we can just walk up to her and say, 'Hey? Guess what Ginny? I drew a picture of you stabbing yourself until you die. Do you happen to know anybody that might be plotting to kill you’?” 

“Stabbing herself?”

Hermione blinked, “What?”

Harry gave her a patient look, “You said 'stabbing herself’.”

“Oh, well, I must have misspoke, I mean, nobody would stab themselves like that, they just wouldn't,” she swallowed, dryly, before taking a sip of her bottled green tea with lemon. As if she could wash the imagined taste of dirty pennies out of her mouth, and the volatile images out of her head by doing so. 

“Nobody would do that to themselves, it was too brutal,” the amber eyed girl shuddered, tensing into herself, “Not your typical angsty teen girl slitting her wrists or anything. This was...worse.” 

“Right. Okay,” Harry nodded thoughtfully, “So what's the plan, then?” The curly haired girl knew Harry believed her about Ginny, but he was also obviously still absorbing it all. It wasn't real for him yet. After all, he hadn't seen it. The painting. The mute horror and sheen of tears frozen forever in the fourteen year old’s filmy powder blue eyes. 

Hermione wasn't sure she could even show it to anyone else. Did Harry really deserve to have that picture in his head? If they could stop it. If Ginny didn't die. Then Hermione rationalized that there was no reason anyone but her should ever have to see the spit fire redhead in such a way. The burden of her gift was intensely personal. She was loathe to share it, even if Harry was willing to share the load. She would still protect him where she could. 

“We're in this together, Mione, even if there is no plan yet, we will think of something,” his warm, large hand enveloped hers, almost reading her mind in that way only people who had known each other forever could. 

“I have some bullet points, and a few jotted rough ideas and outlines,” Hermione fumbled through her backpack, she plucked four pages, filled on both sides of notebook paper from her bag, frowned, and fished out the other seven. 

“Of course you do,” her best friend's smile was as wry and carefully neutral as his voice. He still grimaced a bit as he took the pile, though, “I suppose cops have a lot of paperwork to do, I guess I better get used to it now.” He did not seem to relish the idea. 

“At least one of you listens when I talk,” Hermione smiled at him cheekily, before rising gingerly from the bench to drop her tray with the rest of the masses as the bell gave a warning cry. Harry followed suite. They didn't get another chance to discuss anything until after the dismissal bell rang after seventh period. 

“So when you talk to her, what will you say?” Harry asked, keeping his voice low, so Ron would remain too absorbed in the loud bag of cheese coated crips he was wolfing down to pay their words any mind.

“Me? I'd thought…” Hermione frowned, “You have to know her pretty well, you stay with the Weasley's every summer, don't you?”

“Yeah, but I don't exactly hang out with his little sister, besides you know, you're a girl.”

Hermione drew her eyebrows up, “I am, but I can't recall a single situation where being female has ever helped me talk to other girls,” Hermione sighed, “They find me standoffish, I've been told. Bossy and a few other things I'd rather not get into.”

“That's not true,” Harry began, always quick to defend her, even from herself. 

“Name one girl in our year that can even stand to hang out with me,” she challenged dryly. 

“Well there's…” he struggled to name one girl she got on with and amended, “I'm sure it's not all like that, Mione, I bet they're just intimidated. After all, you're brilliant. You're definitely going to be valedictorian this year and everyone knows it, and you're rather pretty,” he added, almost as a afterthought, “They’re probably just not sure how to approach you.”

It was nearly sweet, how adorably dense boys were about the inner mechanics of girls’ interactions. How they always missed the subtle shunning and catty side comments. Harry wasn't much better in this regard. 

“Whatcha talking about?” Ron was dusting his hands off of crisp crumbs and crumpling the family sized bag to a small ball, which he shoved in his backpack. It crinkled heavily at the intrusion, proving it wasn't the only wrapper to meet such a disposal method. 

“Hermione doesn't think girls like her,” Harry explained, his eyes seeking to communicate with the brash redhead. Ronald shrugged, missing Harry's eye lingo entirely. 

“So?” Ron challenged, “Hermione's not like other girl's anyway, what does it matter?” 

Hermione frowned, peering at the tall boy with a meaningful glance, “Oh?” Just that word. And it carried a lot of meaning. A dare, almost. 

Oblivious, Ron charged ahead, “Yeah, I mean you don't like girl stuff, like makeup and nice clothes. You just sort of read and you don't care how you look, obviously…” His brain caught up to his mouth, or perhaps it was her expression that did it, and the redhead winced, “I mean, not in a bad way. Just, you're different. More like a guy,” he added the last in relief, as if it absolved his earlier comments. 

“Just stop while you're ahead, Ron,” Harry advised with a head shake.

“No offense, Mione, it's why you're easy to hang with, none of that girly squealing and such.”

“You should listen to Harry more often. Really Ron, I get the point,” Hermione assured the rambling boy thinly before flashing him a smile that showed she knew he wasn't being purposefully insulting. Or, you know, sexist. He just didn't know any better. 

“Right. So Harry, I just got this new game, first person shooter, sort of like Call of Duty but it's got this awesome multiplayer mode…” 

Hermione couldn't help but tune out the boys’ animated discussion of their latest shoot to kill video game, having no interest in those sorts of things herself. In the end, after arriving at the Weasley's and discovering that Mrs. Weasley was out a PTA meeting for Ginny's Junior high, it was Ron, of all people, who provided the opportunity for Hermione to speak with Ginny. He was sitting on the couch, booting up his PS4, when the punk looking teen girl came bounding down the cramped stairs. 

Ginny was into sports, mostly soccer and occasionally track, so her body was svelte with a sort of lean, tanned muscle that came from loving the outdoors. Yet lately she'd taken to putting her eyeliner on heavily, straightening her already pin straight hair to a painful point, and wearing as much black as possible. It didn't seem to fit her, but Hermione knew that junior high was filled with one awkward identity crisis after another, and couldn't fault the girl for trying her new look.

“Gin, Mione wants to talk girl stuff, you know, with you, what with her mum being off- you know,” he shrugged. Ginny halted her stride and blinked at Hermione, cocking her head with a tiny mute frown. Just when she figured the other girl planned to refuse, after all, they'd never been friends, or really spoken much come to think of it, Ginny smiled. 

“Alright,” she shrugged, popping open her shiny blue and silver energy drink can and taking a few noisy chugs. “Come on, let's go to my room, it's way too testosterone-y in here for this sort of talk.”

“That better not be my Nos,” Ron complained to his little sister, glaring at the energy drink, “I was saving that for tomorrow morning. There's a six hour Rick and Morty marathon tonight and I'm not missing it for school,” he scoffed. 

Ginny scowled, “I have my babysitting money, I bought this myself.” Seeing Hermione reaching the stairs she started to ascend the cramped stairwell, adding conspiratorially to the other girl, “Don't tell Ron, but this was totally his. I'll probably replace it,” she laughed, eyeing the other girl's dubious look, “Okay, you're right, probably not. But he took the entire bag of crisps to school with him, and those were mine.” 

Familiar with Ginny's family’s odd habit of hoarding and squabbling over snack foods her own parents had long banned for their bad dental consequences or poor health advantages, Hermione could only shake her head and force a soft laugh. Be nice, she reminded herself desperately. Sometimes she was bad at that. 

“So,” Ginny popped onto her sea green bed comforter, bouncing on the twin mattress and gesturing vaguely for Hermione to sit anywhere she liked. 

The room was a hodgepodge of clutter and order. It showed glimpses at all the different sides to the multifaceted girl. Emo band posters lined the walls next to heavy rock idols and pop stars. A pin board showed many photos of friends, concert tickets and other memorabilia from her busy social life as well as a few track ribbons. A guitar, long untouched and gathering dust was propped in one corner, next to a pile of well read magazines, everything from Glamour to Readers Digest. Clothes peppered the floor, messy and possibly worn, and a assortment of makeup cluttered a tiny vanity pushed off on the other side of the room. 

The out of her element antisocial girl eventually perched almost prissily at the edge of Ginny's giant blue and white striped bean bag chair. It was next to her closet and directly facing the bed. A feat not easily achieved, especially considering the wobbly nature of bean bag chairs in general. 

“Girl talk,” the red headed teen mused, eyeing Hermione with a knowing glint in her eyes. “So what's the topic? Makeup application? Boys? Periods? Oh, are you pregnant?”

“What? No! Why would, how could, I mean I haven't even-?” The brunette girl shook her head in miffed assessment of the other girl, “I'm not pregnant.”

“Oh,” Ginny visibly deflated, “Okay then,” she recovered quickly, bouncing slightly in place as she sat in her knees. Practically seeping natural energy, which was also likely enhanced by the extremely sugared and caffeinated drink she had all but finished in less than three minutes, “So what is it? I admit, having nothing but brothers not to mention that the girls in my year are total bimbos, I'm up for some good girl talk. It's cathartic.”

“It's nice to talk to someone who knows what cathartic means without having to Google it,” Hermione admitted, touched by the girl's open acceptance. Ginny beamed, the expression vivid with her heavy makeup. Just like that conversation started to flow more naturally between them.

Maybe she should have talked to Ginny before, and not waited until she'd drawn the girl's gruesome death to take the initiative. She seemed nice. A little much, in the way most young teens were, fierce and defensive as they took their first stumbling steps into adulthood, but nice, and clever. In hindsight Hermione had never considered the benefits of female companionship before, not really. She had Harry and Ron, and her parents. That seemed to be all the socializing her introverted life had room for, but maybe she could change that.

In the true Weasley spirit, Ginny got so excited to talk, she didn't wait for Hermione to pick a topic. Which was, she could admit, more than a slight relief. Instead the strawberry blonde girl launched straight into a vivid story about this older boy she'd met, some lout named McCormac. A boy that Ron would surely punch more than once if he had any idea what he'd been doing to his little sister. 

“I mean, snogging is fine, even if I don't like a bloke I can snog him,” Ginny told her, “Usually, but he used so much tongue,” she pulled a face, “Still, I didn't punch him until he went for my bra clasp,” she sighed heavily, “A mistake, that. He deserved it for that terrible snogging technique as much as copping a feel if you ask me. If I'd done it sooner he wouldn't have had the chance.“

“So,” the raccoon eyed girl leaned forward eagerly, “What was it like?” 

“What?” Hermione felt she must have lost track somehow of the conversation. Ginny's relentless energy showed strongly in her speech, and it was very possible Hermione may have lost track somewhere around the fifth side tangent to the conversation or so. 

“Dating Victor Krum, he's playing for Notre Dame now, of course, but everyone knows you dated him when he was a exchange student here in the UK. A real, honest to God celebrity,” Ginny smirked, “I bet he didn't snog like he was trying to taste your tonsils.” Ginny grimaced at the memory. 

“Ah,” Hermione blushed faintly, “No, he didn't.” Victor's kisses had been sweet, light and warm and had made her cheeks tingle. That is to say what few of them they shared. It occurred to her only belatedly that she was talking to a fourteen year old who likely had more experience than she had. More experience with boyfriends, and snogging, and other things. Other things which Ginny had hinted at heavily during her laundry list of exes, and which Hermione had no knowledge of outside of romance novels. 

“No wonder you need girl talk,” Ginny mused, “you're fairly bad at it. Don't worry, I don't mind. Mum says I talk enough for two anyway.”

“Thanks, I'm just, I've never,” Hermione blushed, hating how she stammered when thrown off her natural element. “I've never really had a female friend, I guess.”

“Well, I'm glad to be your first,” Ginny declared, “You're not silly, or self absorbed like most of my friends. It's nice talking to you, like you really listen, instead of just waiting for your turn to talk.” Now Ginny blushed, clearing her throat, “You know, if you want a eighth grader for a friend, I mean.”

“I'd be delighted,” Hermione assured her quickly, and for a minute they just smiled at one another. Then Hermione remembered what she was there for. She wasn't just a normal girl, making her first female friend, she was a abnormal one, and she was more invested than ever to ensure nothing bad happened to the saucy, sarcastic girl before her. A girl with more brains and brashness than common sense. 

“Ginny, are you seeing anyone now?” Having barely had time to do more than read half of the Criminology textbook she had checked out from the school library and take a few notes throughout the school day and in between her usual school work, Hermione was forced to rely on the potentially faulty logic of crime shows to guide her in this murder mystery. Weren't they always asking about the boyfriend or lover? Something about them being the most likely suspects. 

“There's this guy,” Ginny blurted out, “but you can't tell Ron. Or my mum. You gotta swear. Girl talk code, you know.” 

“I swear,” Hermione promised, pleased to note she wasn't lying. She only planned to tell Harry, if anyone. 

“He’s a bit older than me,” the way she said a bit older made Hermione consider the context. Ginny had no problem admitting Cormac was nearly eighteen in her last story, which made her think this boy might have surpassed the mark. You know, a bit. Her analytical mind was on, and on overdrive. She desperately wanted this to be a clue.

“He’s very nice, well put together,” Ginny had this dreamy look all girls seemed to get while considering their crushes. Hermione wondered if she'd ever looked like that. Her and Victor had been so brief. The military brat, as he called himself, had been born in the US but spent most of his life in Western Russia where his dad had been posted. He had been sweet and charming, but her liking of him seemed to barely develop past the hand holding stage before he had to go back to the States. 

“He's got these great teeth, like super white, and this smile, sort of aloof, but you know, in a bad boy way,” the petite girl flopped back on her bed and sighed dejectedly, “But he doesn't pay me any attention, and I only saw him this one time at the Broomsticks.”

“Broomsticks? The bar on Perchard Street?” Hermione pursed her lips, trying to stifle her judgement. 

“That's the one,” Ginny's smirk turned positively mischievous as she say up, “You can't say anything about this, either, but my friend Lavender got us these super convincing fake IDs, and I practically look seventeen anyway so passing for eighteen is no big.”

Hermione bit her tongue, reminding herself that she was there to gather information, not lecture the young teen on her poor choices. There would be time for that later. Right now was about making sure Ginny lived to see later. 

“So, what's he like?” Hermione asked. 

“I don't actually know,” Ginny worried her lip. “He's always sitting alone, and all these girls approach him but he never pays them any attention. He's got these eyes though, and he dresses like a business clothes model, a suite and tie, so you know he's mature.” 

“But he's not, like, a crusty old guy,” Ginny assured the other girl quickly with a wrinkled brow, mistaking Hermione's politely disbelieving profile for disgust. It wasn't his age the older girl was questioning at present, but the supposition that wearing a suite and tie made a boy mature. 

“He's twenty, at most, and this Thursday Lavender and I were thinking of going back to the Broomsticks again. I'm sure this time I'll be able to talk to him.”

Warning bells went off in Hermione's brain. This sounded like trouble. Even if this strange older man wasn't a murderer, Ginny was leaving herself open to other risks. However, it seemed Ginny's confession was hesitant, brittle with the barely formed friendship forged between them. Despite the girl's overcompensating brashness in her reveal, the blue eyed punk seemed to be defiantly waiting for Hermione to berate her. To act in her usual swotish manner. A expression her elder brother often mirrored, whether the red headed girl would appreciate the comparison or not.

“Would it be okay if I, er, joined you two?” Hermione wasn't the type to self invite herself anywhere. Especially to a bar, and certainly not in the company of two underage drinkers, although she was still a few months shy of being legal herself. Unlike most of her peers she found no great appeal in alcohol, it tasted foul and dulled a person. Still, thanks to Ron and Harry's incorrigible behavior she also had a fake ID. One that was quite well made and had served her well before. As a chaperone to her two head strong friends who couldn't be dissuaded. 

After all, if you can't beat them, join them. 

“Oh! You want to come along…?” Ginny considered it for a moment, and then smiled. “Yes, of course, yes! It'll be brilliant! Lav is not the best company anyway, I mean she's nice, but...Oh you'll see for yourself I suppose,” she laughed, “This is going to be amazing! I can do your hair, and Lav is a goddess with makeup.”

Ginny saw Hermione's doubt and easily misinterpreted it, “She didn't do this,” Ginny scowled, indicating her own thickly lined eyes and bright red lips that clashed with her pale red hair, “I made mess of things today, I bought a new chappie, it's too red, so I tried to detract by emphasizing my eyes, anyway, not important. It'll be fun, and we'll be careful, mostly, I promise.”

Hermione wondered strongly about that. Especially as Ginny grinned even wider, mischief again gleaming in her pale eyes. 

“I never knew you were so cool, Hermione. Rob always makes you out to be such a prude, but what does he know? He's a prat, and a idiot,” Ginny jumped off her bed, landing on her feet like a spry cat. “I've got to call Lav and tell her, you don't mind, do you?” The younger teen hesitated as a after thought. 

“Not at all.” 

Actually, Hermione could use a break. Ginny was nice, but Hermione found herself only able to bear so much 'girl talk’. Not to mention this feeling in her, like a building static charge, one that was all too familiar. Her gift had remained unusually submersed all day. As if the horrific portrait from the day before had purged it somehow. But as always, it was back. Tingling in her wrist, faint now, but it would only worsen. It always did. 

“Get what you wanted?” Harry asked casually as she descended the steps, leaving Ginny to her phone call. 

“Maybe,” Hermione mused, her eyes promising they'd talk more later. Harry nodded and went back to murdering imaginary enemies on the small old school tv Ron's parents had. Ron and Ginny worked side jobs to afford the occasional luxury, but the truth was their family had very modest means. Hermione plopped down in a comfy recliner Arthur Weasley was known to favor. Her mind spinning over what she had learned even as her hand began to tense and un-tense, the pressure in her stomach churning and flipping in turns as a horribly familiar need slowly but surely began to grow and burn inside her. Hermione tried with every fiber of herself to block it out. 

Please. No. Not again, she begged her own stupid body and it's weirdness. But it didn't listen. It never did. And in the end, she always gave in. But not right then. For the next two hours Hermione opened up the Criminology textbook she'd started, determined to cram her head with as much knowledge as possible before Thursday. Maybe this suite wearing guy Ginny seemed to like so much was really no threat, but just in case, she needed to be fully prepared. 

-*- 

Riddle glanced at his watch, his steps a smooth clip as he approached the hotel suite he'd been given as a address. Not the usual boxy affair with the cardboard couches, plywood desk sets and spring mattresses. No, this was a hotel that screamed opulent wealth, it's inhabitants catered to in every aspect. It was a place Tom himself would pick to stay. Only the best of the best, money and wealth passed down through generations, graced the doors of this esteemed establishment. Cold eyes flickered across the subtle yet tasteful displays of power and influence, the service of the full suited staff, impeccable. 

He arrived thirty minutes early, hoping to shock and disarm his host. What his eyes met in the interior of the room could not have displeased him more. On the surface of the glorious, cherry wood conference table, sat a singular laptop, already on. The man who stared back at him was older, but not in the feeble way. Like recognized like, and so Riddle saw the ruthlessness the other man hid behind kind twinkling eyes and a snowy white beard. 

“Ah, Tom, earlier than expected,” the man sounded pleasantly surprised. Riddle scraped back a chair and settled into it, his expression a mask of polite interest. Dumbledore's stare flickered across his person with a knowing twinkle and he fought the urge to sneer. 

“I had hoped to meet in person,” he ventured, easily adopting the persona of a regular, albeit exceptionally bright, man in his twenties. It was only a delay, he assured himself. 

“I'm afraid the circumstances made that purely impossible,” the image in the lap top raised his brows at Riddle, “Surely, you understand.”

“Of course, you must be busy,” he applied his best and most demure smile, “I am honestly grateful you took the time to see me at all.”

A low, soft chuckle hit his ears, “Is that right?” The expression of the man on the screen hardened, a glimpse of the steel he had sensed all along, “Enough of the games, don't you think, Tom? We are both much too clever for this drivel.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but I-”

“Enough,” the elder man interrupted, his expression almost weary as he spoke his next words, “I know what you're after Tom, and you can't have them. Their futures, their identities, they've entrusted them to me, and I won't let you steal them.”

Such a dour, resolute expression, Riddle mused, drumming his fingers in a faint dance, his expression carefully bemused in return. So serious and stern, as if he could force the outcome by resolve alone. And they called him genius. Riddle scoffed. 

“I will have them,” he mused idly, his expression friendly despite the venom in his tone, “You think you can stop me?”

“Please, Tom,” the old man looked over him sadly, “I've seen what happened to the others, what you do when you grow bored of them. Leave well enough alone, you don't need them. You always find them lacking, yes?” 

“It’s not my fault they are so inferior,” Riddle pointed out, leaning forward to add with a charming grin, “I'm sure I’ll find the one I'm looking for eventually, someone worthy.”

“And this is what you do with inferior, is it?” Dumbledore's face was grim, almost disgusted as he presented the earlier follies of Tom's work. Those who had gifts, like his, but had fallen short in so many other ways. Yet Riddle wasn't the type to let others play with his discarded toys, so he'd made a bit of a statement with them. He cocked his head at the large, glossy polaroids the man held before the camera, one after another, male and female, all poised in different agonizing poses of death. 

“Those look like unfortunate suicides to me,” he deadpanned easily, bemused at the on screen man looked crestfallen.

“I’d hoped I was wrong, that you felt something, perhaps had some reason,” there was horror there now, mixed with the tingling sensation of fear. Riddle knew both so well, he drank them in. 

“Oh, I have my reasons, and I had hoped a man of your standing could grasp them,” he confessed idly, he smirked darkly, looking up and down across the laptop screen in aloof dismissal. “It seems your as morally handcuffed as the rest, unable to see the utter truth of things.”

“And what truth is that, Tom?” Dumbledore asked quietly. 

“There is only power, and those strong enough or too weak to grasp it,” he smiled benignly, blue eyes sparking danger, “I hope a meeting, face to face, can bring you around to my way of seeing things.”

“You won't get that opportunity, I'm afraid, now that I'm aware of your interest I can only cancel the study.” Dumbledore frowned regretfully, “A shame, as these young people have so much to teach us, I'm sure of it. They will be disappointed of course to hear the scholarship program has been cancelled.”

“Of course,” Riddle nodded, pulling a device from his jacket pocket, it was larger than a cellphone, but not quite as big as a tablet.

“So nice to see the older generation utilizing technology,” he mused, eyeing the laptop before him meaningfully before busying himself with the device in his hand. A few presses and he had what he wanted. 

“Lemondrop_13? Really? That's not much of a password, hardly worth the ten billion dollar tech I stole to decipher it, really,” Riddle read the password, watching the other man's profile fill with morbid dread. No more merry twinkles, no more condescending moral lectures. 

“Let’s see...” He scrolled through the encrypted data, pleased to see the Horcrux hard drive wasn't just hype. It deciphered all the alternating code he'd encountered in the eccentric Professor's notes, opening the files of the candidates like a hot knife through butter. Greedily, Riddle drank in the details of the study, a derisive tilt to his lips. 

“A telekinetic, had one, wasn't much use,” he mused, bypassing the picture of the sullen teen posing for a mug shot. Malfoys were old money, Riddle kept track of such things. Their heir apparent being a freak was buried so deep, only a man of Dumbledore's connections could hope to gleam such information. Despite his disinterest in the Malfoy heir as his possible partner, all leverage was useful, he copied and sent himself the most incriminate files. 

“Talking to animals? What possible purpose could that serve?” Riddle snorted, disdaining the vapid looking blonde girl at first sight. She stared up from her photo in dreamy bemusement. 

“No gift is invaluable Tom,” Dumbledore's expression was pained, “Not everyone values others on how their best used to serve their purposes.”

Ignoring the man's pandering idealism that had no true value in reality, Riddle flipped to the next photo and the next. Perhaps Dumbledore was right, so far his study showed no unique value. Nothing he couldn't achieve through his own gift, as the trial and error of his previous partners proved. 

“What does this mean?” His lip curled as he eyed the plain, curly haired girl. Next to her name and the most basic of information was the words, ability: divination. 

“I assume you're aware that there are some, like yourself, who have intrinsic abilities that develop and strengthen with time, yes?” Dumbledore gave him a smirk of his own, “Yet there are some who possess chaotic abilities, gifts that have no connection to the will or control of the person they flow through. Almost like they are being influenced by a outside source.”

“That girl is very special, I believe her to be one of the few not affected by our kind.”

Riddle tilted his head curiously, “Our kind?”

“You see, when a person of chaotic abilities meets a person of intrinsic abilities there is a fight for generic supremacy. Control over chaos. Yet you may find, as I have, that Miss Granger defies those expectations, in that her chaotic nature defies control.”

“You see, we are much alike, you and I,” at the younger man's repulsed expression he chuckled, “Yes, in many ways we differ. I wish to preserve life. You see any life other than your own as inconsequential obstacle in your struggle for absolute power.”

“Yet are we both not intelligent men? Born with gifts that would terrify and alienate the average person?” He gave the cool eyed man a considering look, “Perhaps it is just circumstance of birth that separates what we are, monster from man, sociopath from altruistically devoted cynic.”

“And what do you think makes us alike?” Riddle asked in a low murmur. 

“I may have the ability to know everyone's thoughts, but I thank the universe I was never burdened as you,” his blue eyes bled somber, mouth forming a concerned frown, “To control anyone you wish, just with you voice. Such a power would be nearly impossible not to use ambiguously, let alone with your upbringing.”

“Don't act as if you know me,” the blue eyed man scoffed, standing abruptly from his chair, “Your pity is sorely misplace. Save it perhaps, for this delicate little flower,” he jeered, flipping up the polaroid of the honey eyed girl toward the screen in taunt, “She won't have your tricks to hide behind.”

“Riddle, she can't control her gift, and therefore can't be controlled, I can't even-” Riddle stared at the closed laptop in satisfaction. There was no one he couldn't control. Dumbledore would only live out the remainder of his pathetic life long enough to see what Riddle turned the girl into. His perverse little puppet, scraping at his feet. As they all did. Every. Last. Insignificant. One. Of. Them. 

 

A/N: Happy V-Day! Wait...What do you mean that doesn't stand for Voldemort Day? Oh well... The love and support this fiction has gotten sent my heart soaring so I had to post today. More Tomicidal fun to come, and next time they might even meet *exaggerated winky face*


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